Phoenix
by ficdirectory
Summary: Quinn spends the summer before Yale doing the last thing expected.


It's scary to think that in just over a month, Quinn will be moving away from everything she has ever known. Everything, at least, since high school. In a way, it's good. She needs a change. She needs to settle. But in a way, it's terrifying. Her mom isn't helping things, worrying that all Quinn's progress since May will come crashing down.

Quinn loves her mom. Of course she does. But there's resentment, too. Because who says that the only progress she's made should be measured in how many unassisted steps she takes. It's disappointing to think that - more often than not over the course of her lifetime - Quinn has been a disappointment. First, by getting pregnant before she was truly ready. Then, by falling in with the wrong crowd. And then, finally, when she got her act together, a second of inattention cost Quinn her independence. In this and in a million other small ways, Quinn _is _a disappointment.

This, though, is her chance to do something right. To make her daughter proud. To make her mother look at her with something more than pity. If Quinn can get her stamina up to the point where she can have the endurance necessary to walk around campus and not take frequent breaks like a geriatric woman, well, that will be a step in the right direction.

She gets up early each morning, and dresses in sweats, slipping out the door before her mom can make a fuss about her going somewhere on her own. Blaine is waiting in the driveway. He's an unlikely choice, but really, the only one she's got. Neither Santana nor Brittany will answer their phones before noon in the summer. Other than those two, Quinn doesn't have many close friends. So, she had been left choosing from the rest according to who hated her least. She texted everyone to ask, but got only one positive response.

He says nothing. Only sits quietly in the driver's seat, and waits for her to buckle her seatbelt. Then, he hands her a Cinnamon Dolce Latte from the local coffee shop, and threads his fingers through hers. It's reassurance, not romance. The 21st is eight days from now. Three months since Quinn's entire life as she knew it was divided into pre and post-accident.

The anniversary is awful each time, and Quinn keeps hoping that some of the anxiety will lessen, but so far, that hasn't happened. She squeezes Blaine's hand, and he returns the gesture. Quinn tries to pay attention to this and not the way she is slowly losing herself. She tries to focus on the progress she has made, instead of panicking for the millionth time, at the reality of riding in a car.

"It kind of seems unreal, doesn't it?" Blaine asks.

"What?" Quinn asks, her voice low and careful. She can do this. She can make it until Blaine parks in McKinley's lot.

"It doesn't feel like it's been three months…" he ventures quietly.

Quinn is about to snap at him, but she catches the look in his eyes by chance. Regret. Sadness. Fear. And it occurs to her that Blaine is coping just as badly as she is. This day isn't just difficult for her. It's something she hasn't considered.

"No," she allows. "It doesn't." She stares at the gray of her sweatpants. Thinks of the struggle it was recently to do something as simple as pulling on a pair of pants. She looks back at the agony, and forward at the progress, and it is dizzying.

"Ready to go?" Blaine asks, pocketing his keys.

Quinn lets out the breath she habitually holds whenever she arrives at a destination unharmed. It might seem silly, but for what she's been through. She thinks about her cell phone on her nightstand, still plugged in. Her mom will kill her for not bringing it with her, but Quinn is high-strung enough without adding electronics to her many distractions.

Blaine sits down in the grass and stretches. She finds a place nearby and does the same. Quinn wouldn't have thought of it - even though she spent years on the Cheerios squad - time away from the sport has left her with an amnesia of sorts.

Quinn bites her lip and concentrates on stretching. The pins and needles sensation in her legs is tolerable. But just because she is walking, doesn't mean that she's cured. People misinterpret that. She still has to deal with the strange sensations and occasional pain. It is a conscious effort, even three months later, to make sure she is picking up each foot in turn and setting it down again. She has to be more vigilant than usual, to be sure she doesn't trip over anything that might be in her path. She doesn't wear her I-Pod like Blaine does. Technology. Distraction. Quinn can't afford anymore of those.

Finally, Quinn feels stretched enough and she gets up slowly, wincing. Like they have done, every week for the past five, Blaine gives Quinn one earbud, while he wears the other. He holds her hand, and together, they find a rhythm - running at her pace - to the ridiculous sounds of Roxy Music. She doesn't dare comment, since - for some strange reason this particular band makes Blaine so happy - but Quinn finds she would prefer almost anything else.

Still, it gives their morning jog a unique soundtrack. The songs are just distracting enough that Quinn is able to forget about the looming three-month anniversary and focus instead on the beautiful day.

Just like that, though, and she's tripped. She hazards to bet that it isn't anything obvious like a rock or a hole, but instead, she's tripped over her own feet. She's tangled in the I-Pod wires, and frustrated, but Blaine just offers her a hand up. He's neither too protective nor insensitive. The balance works for her.

"Get up. Come on," he encourages. "Once around. You can do it."

Quinn scowls. His encouragement has the opposite effect on her. Instead of motivating her, it leaves her in the firmer than ever belief that there is no way she'll be able to do this. Never mind that she has already done it.

"Tell me I can't…" she huffs, already out of breath. She should never have started smoking. Add one more thing to her long list of regrets.

"Excuse me?" Blaine asks, the wind whipping through his ungelled, unruly curls. He's in a Buckeyes tee shirt and athletic pants.

"Don't tell me I _can_, Blaine! Tell me I _can't_!" Quinn insists.

"You…can't?" Blaine says, without much heart.

"Come _on_, Blaine. I need you, here. Don't you always say that if I ever need you all I need to do is let you know?" she asks rhetorically. "Well, this is me letting you know…" Her legs feel like numb, out of shape noodles. Days like today, Quinn knows it was a miracle that she was able to dance at Nationals.

They are walking side by side, when Blaine suddenly stops. "I think that's enough for today," he says, with a meaningful look her direction.

A small fire is building inside her and Quinn speeds up the tiniest bit.

The second time she goes down, Blaine is even more insistent.

"Let's just stop for now," he bargains - the closest he can come to telling her she can't do something - "You're obviously exhausted. We can come back later." And then, comes the kicker: "It's no big deal if you can't do it."

In response, she grasps Blaine's hand firmly and pulls herself up. She falls again and again, her legs refusing to cooperate. But Quinn will not stop. She can't afford to. This is her future. This is her life. She has risen from the wreckage of her life once before. She can do it again.

She is falling, but she won't look down.

By the time they finish, Quinn is exhausted and sweating. Her legs ache, but it's a good pain.

She squeezes the hand in hers and he says nothing, only squeezes back.

It's all she needs. It's all she's ever needed.

_The End._


End file.
